Scars
by Lachesis Fatali
Summary: Scars make us who we are; some are just more important than others. Zell's POV, a rendition of how he came to the decision to get his tattoo.


"Scars"  
by Lachesis Fatali  
  
For Aria ^^ whom I deem my plot-bunny convention machine.  
  
************  
  
We all have scars.  
  
Not that I'm stating the obvious or anything. I mean, being in the line of work that we all are, mercenaries for hire, you would think you'd pick up a few battle trophies in the field every now and then. But I'm not talking about the casual burns and near misses that you get in a sparing match, then show off to girls in bars or to your friends when you're playing strip poker. I'm talking about those moments when you're hit, and you see your life flash before your eyes. You see what you could have been, what you might have done, what you've already accomplished. And you know that no matter how far you've gotten in life, no matter how many trophies or plaques you've got hanging in your bedroom, one chance at life isn't enough.   
  
And then, you wake up two weeks later in the Balamb hospital ward, and you laugh it off as another brush with death, a chance defeat of the odds that wanted to claim your life. It's a necessary attitude, if you want to risk it all daily, for no other reason than limitless energy and a drive to prove yourself. Selphie has a lot these, surprisingly; badges of honor, she call them, and wears them proudly.  
  
There are other types of scars too. Ones that don't mark us as deeply on the surface, but leave a lasting impression underneath appearances. Seifer and Squall come to mind at the moment. I didn't even really know either of them until three weeks ago, but one look at the searing, meaningful glares they shared was enough for me to figure out there was more to those mirrored scars than meets the eye. I'd ask them about it, but I value my life. Maybe someday one of them will tell me. I doubt it though. Irvine claims to have one on his forehead from where an old girlfriend threw a picture frame at him, but that's not quite the depth I was going for with that example.   
  
Then there's the third kind. Not superficial scars, nor physical ones with a deeper meaning, but those that people voluntarily keep with them, scars upon their soul. Sometimes their beneficial, sometimes not. Most of the time, however, they are a memory of something. An event, a person, a deed that changed a life forever, and in the mind and heart of that person it will never be forgotten. A scar that serves a purpose even if other people never see it, because it is always there for you, and so is it's meaning. Killing people leaves those kinds of scars upon you, but they're so numerous I don't even notice anymore. Saving people does the same, and they go a long way to healing the former.  
  
Finally, there's the combination of all three. And those are the kind that you were proudly your entire life, that you hear the old mean talk about with "And see this one, from the Battle of Ticonderoga?" They're the scars that make us who we are, more so than even our parents and our friends, that mark us by chance circumstance and leave behind a depth of meaning that would probably take a lifetime to fathom.  
  
That's what my scar is. Not that it looks like a scar anymore. I grin jauntily at myself in the mirror, watching the jagged black spirals of my tattoo stretch to fit my face. You can't see it anymore. In fact, it probably faded away to nothing but a patch of pale skin across my cheek, possibly nothing more than a love-tap from a childhood fight. But it was more than that.  
  
I was always what parent's deemed a boisterous child. I was the one that ran through the house with muddy shoes, who knocked down vases and brought home strange pets that I pleaded to keep. And fought with other children. Constantly. Never over anything serious, of course. Just the brotherly and not-so-brotherly scuffles of child-hood, the wars between rival schools and neighborhoods, from which you brought back home nothing more than a skinned knee and a few tears; both of which were forgotten within the hour when you rediscovered one of your toys or realized your favorite cartoon show was on TV.   
  
My mother had no idea what to do with me. Sometimes I feel like randomly apologizing to her for being such a pain in the ass as a kid, but for some reason I think now she really doesn't mind. But she did then. I remember being called into the house, cleaned up from my fights non-too-gently and scolded, sent to bed without dinner. Not that it mattered to me then. I'd wake up in the morning and it would be a new day, filled with new prospects with punishment a long way off. One night, however, my mother had just had enough of me. That was the day I had broken the arm of one of the boys across the street, after he had called me a wuss. I was probably... yeah, around seven years old. She sat me down in the kitchen and stared into my eyes, as if trying to impart some of her sold-mindedness and reason into me. And I wasn't having any of it.  
  
"Zell, you've got to learn that you can't fight over meaningless things," she said, shaking her head as she scrubbed mud off of my cheek. I squirmed, and she glared me disapprovingly, before moving to clean another dirt splatter on my arm.   
  
"Grandad fought all the time," I protested, squinting up at her.   
  
She sighed. "One of these days, you're going to realize that fighting is all very well and good if it *means* something, if you're doing it for protection or for the sake of another person. But honey-" And then she was one her knees in front of me, smiling slightly. "As much as your reasons seem important now, they're not. Save that fight for when it's needed."  
  
Did I listen? Did I care? Not really. As soon as I was patched up I was back outside again, head of my own little band of warriors, picking out battles where we chose and winning most of them. I didn't even think of what she said again until I was thirteen. Incidentally, the year I came to SeeD. But that was somewhat later.  
  
It was the night of the Balamb festival, and I had been sitting out on the docks, sulking because of the clean, immaculate dress clothes my mother had wrestled me into earlier that night. I didn't do well with fashion: I still don't. So I just sat there, skipping stones across the open water when I heard the unmistakable sounds of a fight. Interest piqued, I rose and ran off in the direction it came from, right behind the cargo boxes from the earlier shipments that day. And for the first time, I saw a fight that I knew I would take no part in.  
  
It was a bunch of drunks in the first place, people who had no business being up and about in relatively civilized society in their state. Two boys and girl, at least five years older than me and probably twice as tall, despite my growth spurt. And they were clustered around a dog. A harmless, flee bitten stray that had probably been attracted by nothing more than the warmth of the Festival fires and the promise of some scraps of food left over once everyone else crawled off to bed. And instead all it was met with was drunken cruelty, at the moment being prodded with sticks, backed into a corner between two of the crates. It whined piteously, barely heard over the laughter of its torturers, too tired to fight back.  
  
So I fought back for it instead.  
  
Truth be told, I don't remember much of it. It was dark and I leapt forward, kicking out at the one nearest to me. He dropped like a stone, more from his inebriation than the power of my blow. Short triumph, but then I was grabbed behind the shoulder by the girl, held in place as she giggled and the remained boy eyed the dog speculatively, totally ignoring me. The animal didn't even move, merely stayed in it's place, curled up upon itself in defense.  
  
"Doggy flambé," he slurred, the questioned directed to my holder. She nodded drunkenly and grinned, the smell of her breath making me gag. I saw the telltale gather of power at his fingertips, the beginnings of a Fira. And I leapt out of the girl's loosened grasp, in front of the dog - and directly in the path of the spell.  
  
I woke up about a day later in my own house, the entire left side of my face an aching, sore mess. I turned over on my pillow and winced as it brushed against the fabric, almost as if my skin were still one fire. Then came the tell-tale staccato of my mother's footsteps up the stair to my bedroom, and I winced again, though for a different reason. I was going to catch hell for it.  
  
Or so I thought. As soon as she came in, fixed me with the disappointed gaze of hers I blurted out the entire story, feeling dumb and foolish and like I deserved a punishment. But instead, she laughed and wrapped her arms around me, saying that explained why that dog followed my rescuers home, and she thought it was just a stray and she had fed it and it was waiting outside. I wriggled out of her embrace and ran over to my window, glancing down at the street below, and sure enough it was there, happily feasting upon my mother's leftovers.  
  
And in that moment, I knew what I wanted to do with that drive to fight, that need. I'd protect things, just like I did for it last night. I'd do it for people now too.  
  
I joined SeeD about a week later. The Fira had left a large, spiraling burn down the left side of my cheek, the patterns no longer painful, but there as a reminder of what I'd done, of what I realized because of it. Not that I explained it to anyone. Yes, my mother offered to have a doctor look at the scar, to try and see if they could repair the skin, but I wanted to keep it there, I wanted to see it every morning as I looked in the mirror and remember why the hell I'm fighting now, what caused me to choose this life. Of course, if began to fade within it's own time, until it was nothing more than a pale blemish on my sun-tanned skin.  
  
That's when I had the tattoo done. The lady who did it looked at my like I was crazy when I told her what I wanted, an embellished design based upon the spiral already on my cheek. She started talking about how scars fade away in their own time, how I didn't need to cover it until I felt like smacking her and saying "Yo, I don't want to cover it. I don't want to forget, and I don't want it to fade. I *want* to remember it." Finally she just shook her head and motioned for me to take my seat, and two hours later I walked out, my left cheek swollen and sore once more, but the mark of what I had done forever imprinted on my skin, a scar that would not fade.  
  
Scars make us who we are. Everyone has them. Just some are more important than others.  
  
I peek out the window of my bedroom and look down, seeing the dog there as it's been there every single day of my leave. The war is over and peace has been won, but it doesn't know that. It merely looks up expectantly and wags it's tail as it did the first day it followed me home, as I laugh and rush down the stairs, ready to go outside and spend another day of glorious peace.  
  
************  
  
Bah. Inconclusive ending. But okay overall. 


End file.
